


Cairston

by plumedy



Category: Murder Rooms: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon - TV, Father Figures, Ficlet, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 20:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11215530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: Bell and Doyle are on a stakeout, and of course Doyle sprains an ankle.





	Cairston

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsHorowietzky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHorowietzky/gifts).



> I'm finally posting it, with corrections and all! :D <3

When I reach the corner of the massive stone wall and peek at the front yard of the manor, I find it empty. Not a sign of a carriage on the road; not a footprint in the wet shorn grass. I lower my revolver a fraction, tension slowly draining from my body.  
  
I ought to be disappointed, perhaps, but in truth I think this development almost lucky. Dusk is rapidly descending on the hills - and darkness is to our advantage. A little wait never hurt. Perhaps it will revive Doyle, too, who earlier seemed decidedly under the weather.  
  
I turn a little to look at him, but he is not behind me as I expected. Somewhat nonplussed, I lower my gaze and see that he sank to the ground, one of his legs drawn to his chest and his free hand wrist deep in heather flowers.  
  
"Doyle," I whisper. He raises his head to look at me, and in the mild light of dawn that falls on his face I see that he is a picture of misery.  
  
"Sprained my anterior talofibular," he whispers back. "So sorry."  
  
Sorry and in a lot of pain, and make no mistake. Ankle sprains are a nasty set of injuries. And he never cried out, poor boy, certainly out of fear that we'd be heard.  
  
"I daresay this old man can still fend off a criminal on his own," I quip wryly, swaying my cane a little for emphasis. That gets a smile out of him.  
  
"Oh, I know you can, Doctor."  
  
He's rather taken to calling me that, but the trouble is, I'm not much of one just at the moment. The circumstances aren't particularly conducive to any medical procedures.  
  
"You think you could wait this out?" I ask.  
  
"Of course," reassures he hastily, but I'm not inclined to take his word for it. The boy is nothing if not prone to self-sacrifice.  
  
I lower myself on one knee in front of him, and damn it, but my own bad leg hurts. I snort with silent laughter. Oh, we're a fine company, he and I.  
  
"Looks like we're both crippled now, Doyle." That makes him smile again. Good. One step at a time does it.  
  
I use the moment to briefly palpate the affected appendage. He yelps a little and immediately looks guilty afterwards.  
  
"There, now. He's not here yet. You'll have to shout louder than this to summon him all the way from Cairston."  
  
That's the talofibular all right. Nothing too drastic if he doesn't get it into his head to walk. And I'll see to it that he does not.  
  
"All right," I say. "I'll wait here with you, mind?"  
  
When I awkwardly sit in the soft heather beside him, I find that it's not such a bad place to spend a couple of hours in. The air is warm and the sweet smell of flowers wafts over the grounds, intoxicating the large clumsy bees buzzing around us. We could certainly have fared worse.  
  
Now that I'm in a sitting position, Doyle is back to being a good head taller than I am. That's always a little awkward. He's certainly outgrown his old mentor in a rather spectacular fashion.  
  
"Right," I say, and rest my hand with the revolver atop my knee. Enjoyment of nature is all well and good, but work is work.  
  
Doyle seems to feel less discomfort now. From the corner of my eye I can see the muscles of his jaw relax, the pallor leach out of his face. The beads of sweat on his temples are drying up.  
  
His shoulder is almost touching mine when he breathes. We're sitting very close. The fact that I notice this with some satisfaction makes me think I've gone rather embarrassingly soft over the years I've spent with him.  
  
A good fifteen minutes pass in silence. The sun has disappeared out of view, and only a tender strip of orange in the sky reminds me that it's still early evening. I'm straining my ears but can hear nothing except for the call of a robin in the woods downhill from the manor. Our friend is running a little late. An unexpected commitment in Cairston, perhaps?  
  
Suddenly something bumps softly against my lapel. I look down and discover that Doyle, exhausted by pain, has fallen asleep on me. His head is lying on my collarbone, his fringe tickling my chin.  
  
Ah. Ah. He's not going to feel very at ease about this when he wakes up, is he? I ought to gently move him away, of course. Spare him the embarrassment.  
  
I reluctantly raise a hand, but he catches it and holds onto my forearm, his fingers curling around my wrist in a deliberate gesture. I realize, suddenly, that he's not asleep at all.  
  
It's a good thing we can't see each other's faces. I feel I must look flustered.  
  
Better not to say anything, whispers a voice in my head. He might withdraw then. And you don't want that, do you?  
  
I don't. If I'm being entirely honest with myself, half-holding him like this is a joy. It makes me remember holding my own children, altogether too long ago, and feeling that sweet flutter in my chest, a mixture of awe and adoration that ever accompanies a bond of loving parental protection.  
  
So I draw him closer and feel a flush of delight when he shifts his weight towards me. How grateful I am that Cairston is far away. I wish that it were a million miles away in that moment - on the other end of the earth, and that there were no road from there to here.


End file.
